My new donkey, Norman, is proving a valuable and amiable travelling
companion.
Not only is he carrying my tired and over-travelled frame across
Albania, he is an attentive and thoughtful listener, a refreshing
antidote to the apathy I have sometimes encountered towards my
benevolent mission.
He
doesn't shy away when I talk about the unique properties of Market
Drayton confectionery...
He doesn't run off when I mention that Clive of India is buried
in a modest grave in Moreton Say that is visited on each anniversary
of his death by five women dressed all in black claiming to be
the embodiment of his spouses, who leave garden herbs around the
grave, or as I liked to call them, the Five Clive Chive Wives.
... He doesn't even lose interest when I wax lyrical about the
mysterious regenerative properties of the rich soil in and around
Moreton Say.
So
I have shared with Norman my hopes and fears, I have communed
with my donkey and spent a night in quiet reflection, meditating
upon the beauty of my homeland, dwelling upon those many wonderful
memories of living life the Shropshire way, and upon those brief
glimpses I got of Sophia through the net curtains.
I
awoke with my resolve hardened.
Thinking
back to some of the earlier methods I employed in spreading the
good news of paradisaic Shropshire, I recall mixed results; but
results nonetheless.
I will never forget success stories such as Chip, once a lost
soul with a successful and highly lucrative business empire in
Perth, now living in a bedsit in Market Drayton; or Toby - the
alley-rat, once living in the human sewers of Birmingham, but
now tasting the sweet life of domesticated Salopian bliss.
I
spent most of today just covering ground, talking to my Donkey
and comparing Albania with Shropshire.
After an objective weighing up of the various pros and cons, much
careful contemplation of each and every facet and a serious look
at my own motivations, prejudices and upbringing, I've come to
the definitive conclusion that Shropshire is far, far superior
in every possible aspect.
Mother
called.
The doctor explained that she wanted me to be the first person
she spoke to after her accident, so she insisted he dial my phone
and hold the handset next to her.
After the doctor spoke, all I could hear was a distant gurgling,
followed by what sounded like someone dropping a bag of wet leaves.
I presumed this was Mother so I talked... she rasped and gurgled.
It was actually one of the most pleasant conversations I've ever
had with her and we cleared up quite a few things.
We
are heading, as far as I can tell, south, back towards Greece.
I did want to go to Serbia but Norman seems to have alternative
travel plans.
I've
begun planning a new poster campaign.
It
occurs to me that many of the pro-Shropshire slogans I left behind
in my wake could have had (or still may be having) an effect on
passers by.
Sadly, if my campaigns have caused any significant increase in the
population of Shropshire, it will not be accurately measured until
the 2011 census.
I'm considering calling the B&B in Cleobury Mortimer I once
heard about to see if there has been any discernible upsurge in
business lately.
I located
a copy shop on the Albanian/Grecian border and they have agreed
to cease their replication of Norman Wisdom posters long enough
to produce a few thousand new posters for me.
The
establishment is run by a man named Andor, a sort of older Michael
Douglas if you can imagine such a thing. In fact, he is teetering
dangerously on the edges of Kirk, with eyes like pickled beetroot
and leathery hide instead of skin.
Andor works mostly in the back of the shop, leaving his wife, Cipriana,
who oddly enough happens to look just like a younger and significantly
hairier Catherine Zeta-Jones, to attend the shop counter.
European
women never cease to amaze me - how their beauty still manages to
radiate through the thick tangles of dark hair.
Hirsute women are not entirely alien to Shropshire. There are the
otherwise lovely ladies of the ironically named Shaveton, and the
occasional exceptions to the rule closer to home, like Mrs Geathing
who runs the Scope shop.
Mrs Geathing once had her legs shaved and waxed for Children In
Need - it took them fourteen hours, two litres of shaving cream,
eleven razors, a blowtorch and a modified lawnmower to accomplish
the task, she did raise £34.50 though.
This
Grecian beauty though, was in a pilous league of her own.
At
least that was my feeling until she began yelling at me. I only
enquired as to how long my order might be, and she flew into an
incomprehensible rage.
I left the shop quickly, backwards and smiling, as experience has
taught me not to argue with anyone when I cannot discern whether
they are for me or against me.
The
day did turn up an interesting event. Outside the copy shop I got
talking to an American backpacker named Milo, who resembled a young
William Katt (after The Greatest American Hero, but before the awful
dinosaur film with Sean Young).
I didn't presume to ask the nature of his business at the copy shop,
but we did chat for some time, eventually relocating to a nearby
park to continue our exchange.
I found Milo to be, quite frankly, one of the most fascinating individuals
I have met in my entire life, with a few exceptions of course -
like the landlord of the Limping badger in Market Drayton or the
Old Yellow Man of Wroxeter or Heather Brown, the Practice Manager
at Pontesbury Medical Practice in Pontesbury.
Milo
is a kindred spirit. He told of how he left his beloved home town
of Slatington, New Jersey, where he had a promising career in medicine,
opting instead to travel the globe in search of enlightenment.
I was eager to tell him that the answers to all his questions about
life lay waiting in England's first (nary twenty-seventh) county;
but I acquiesced so as to listen to his tales more carefully.
Apparently,
his family name is Forrest, and he passionately explained that there
have been Forrests in New Jersey for over 200 years. I pointed out
that there have been Forests in Shropshire since the dawn of time,
but it took me far too long to explain afterwards that this was
merely dexterous wordplay.
Americans
and their sense of humour.
Geographically
misguided as he may be, I found his passion for his birthplace and
its people to be most refreshing. As evening approached, we wished
each other happy travels, and parted company.
As
if sealing my newly-restored faith in the human condition, Milo
did not ask me for money, try to kidnap me, kill me, brainwash me,
extort me, or ask to see or offer to show any intimate body parts
upon his departure.
Collected
my new campaign posters:
GREECE
IS BAD FOR YOU.
TRY SHROPSHIRE - LITE.
and
ALEXANDER
WAS GREAT,
MORETON SAY IS BETTER.
Beneath
each legend I requested a Greek translation, which may have been
the source of yesterday's hostilities in the copy shop.
As
I was leaving the shop, posters in hand and a newly imbibed sense
of determination welling within me, whom should I see again but
my friend from yesterday, Milo.
I decided
to explain to him the specifics of my quest. As I hoped, more than
anyone else I have met on my journey so far, Milo understood.
In fact, he was quite inquisitive, keenly interested in hearing
about my myriad successes so far.
He followed me around as I placed my new posters in strategic places
around the town - on lampposts, the rear of buses and the insides
of public lavatories (a particularly good idea of mine, as escapism
is of prime concern when visiting these in Greece).
Milo
talked less today about Slatington, and seemed to concentrate more
on listening to me. Maybe I have made another convert.
When we parted company again, he seemed full of a new hope. Perhaps
we will meet again on the grassy, emerald pastures of Shropshire.
In
my dreams last night, I was in a field of purest Shropshire grass,
laying on my front naked, save for a loose-fitting toga, while Sophia
and Cipriana took turns massaging my back with perfumed oils. Each
rub of my back emitted a noise that became slowly louder until it
was an ear-piercing squeak.
I awoke
to the noise of a window cleaner working behind the curtains of
my hotel bedroom window. Able only to see his silhouette beyond
the muffled morning sun, I trudged slowly into the bathroom for
my morning ablutions.
When
I returned and drew my curtains, I received an enormous shock. There,
on the other side of the glass were huge, bold letters proclaiming:
SLATINGTON,
N.J. IS MEDICALLY PROVEN
TO BE THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH.
- Dr M. Forrest
Milo?
I had
failed to see it.
The same overwhelming love for small town way of life, the same
determination to reach as many lands as possible in his lifetime,
the same rugged determination and matinee idol good looks, even
it would seem, the same copy shop.
No
wonder he was interested in hearing about my success stories. I
had even told him about the occasion I used a window cleaner's hoist
to display posters on the outside of high-rise building windows.
 |
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Some
people have no shame!
|
Milo
is on exactly the same mission as me! Except he isn't spreading
the gospel of Shropshire; he is spreading an apocryphal message
of hope about some hick town in New Jersey.
I just
never considered this possibility. I need to step up my campaign.
I managed
to put up 184 posters around the town today. 185 if you count the
one that Norman ate.
Spent
the entire day running around the town, putting up my posters and
tearing down Milo's.
It
was hard work, leaving me too tired to write much today, suffice
to say I shall not be deterred. With my last dying gasp I will wheeze
something positive about Shropshire, even if it's just a brief comment
on how nice the newsagents is in Ackleton.
Milo's
posters spring up as fast as I can rip them down, like the skeletons
in 'Jason and the Argonauts'.
Must
work faster.
Norman
is faithfully carrying a new batch of posters. I have a couple of
new slogans:
ONCE
YOU'VE TASTED SHROPSHIRE,
EVERYTHING ELSE TASTES LIKE CHICKEN
and
IN
MORETON SAY,
A PLATE IS FOR LIFE -
NOT JUST FOR DINNER.
I'm
exhausted from running around, I feel like Sisyphus, for every poster
I put up, Milo seems to put up two.
I suspect he may have associates.
Camilla
Edwards has been a formidable enemy for some time, but she is really
an enemy of Shropshire first, and therefore my own foe by default.
Camilla and the evil Country Life propaganda machine are really
just among life's constants.
Milo is something else entirely - he is my arch nemesis, my evil
twin, the yin to my yang, the Welshpool to my Bridgnorth.
If
Milo is travelling the globe encouraging people to live in Slatington,
New Jersey, this will have a detrimental effect on the pure message
of my own travels. He could be undoing all of my good work.
I shall
not be thwarted. Shropshire must grow and envelop all. She must
one day encompass the globe in her loving embrace. She must overshadow
the oppressors, overpower the unreasonable and overturn the hidden
evils.
... She must engulf the world, suffocating anyone or anything that
opposes her, but in a nice way.
My
work is far from over. I will not be deterred.
Milo
Forrest - you will taste Shropshire or you will taste the wrath
of Morris Telford!
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